


Quiver for His Arrows

by ShaneAndrew



Series: Picture's Worth [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:04:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha sends Coulson a welcome-back-from-the-dead present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quiver for His Arrows

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this fanart: http://meekobits.tumblr.com/post/34201445321/sir-im-here-to-hand-in-my-report  
> Also I felt the general need to write some cheesy, cheesy smut. Enjoy!
> 
> SA

There was always paperwork. You’d think that saving the world from legions of human-hating, destruction-hungry aliens led by a horned diva with a serious attitude problem would have solved most of S.H.I.E.L.D’s issues. But real life went on, and that meant more paperwork. Damage control for the destruction caused to the city of New York. Lawsuits by angry politicians. Fighting to keep their organization a secret.

            Phil sat back at his desk chair a moment, scrubbing the palms of his hands over tired eyes. You’d also think coming back from the dead would have earned him a little break to go along with the cheering accolades and absolute fountain of alcohol used to celebrate his return. He still wasn’t sure how Thor had managed to acquire that much champagne without arousing suspicion, but he wasn’t one to look a gift demigod in his stupidly grinning mouth.

            And then it was back to work, full-time, as though he’d never left. And while he didn’t mind too much (as he did enjoy his job and the salary was nothing short of fantastic), he could have used a longer vacation.

            Heh, maybe he should take Stark up on his offer to be flown to Portland for a weekend. He was just reaching for his phone when the intercom buzzed, three quick bursts. Business as usual; someone stopping by to file an incident report. Glad for a break from the Everest of forms in his inbox, he pressed his thumb to the answer button. 

            “Coulson.”

            “Agent Barton to see you, sir. Incident report.”

            _Oh, it’s you_. He hadn’t seen Clint since his welcome-back party, and the memories of just what the man liked to do when tipsy nearly set his cheeks afire. Until that night he’d no idea that the usually-brooding Hawkeye could be so…loose-minded.

            “Sir? He seems…impatient.” Was it just his imagination, or was there a giggle at the edge of his secretary’s voice?

            “Send him in.” Tie was straight, suit was impeccable, hair was unruffled. Hastily he shifted some of the papers around, hoping to look busy. He heard the door open and then shut, and that seemed odd for someone just turning in a report. This sort of thing usually took no more than a few min – _What in the hell is he wearing?_

            Clint Barton stood no more than six inches from the front of his desk, one hand on his report and the other on his hip, cocked to the side. The grin on his face was nothing short of wicked, and his blue-green eyes were sharp as ever. And he was showing a _lot_ more skin than Coulson would have ever thought possible.

            The outfit, such as it was, was in the hero’s signature muted purple, and did not leave much to the imagination. A tiny vest showcased most of his rather magnificent chest. Sheer black gloves ending in what looked like garter belts made for biceps adorned his carved-from-marble arms. What looked to be the top of a thong disappeared into a scandalously short skirt; calling it “mini” would have been too generous. More sheer black clung like a second skin to legs that seemed to go on and on, slipping neatly into his combat boots.

            For some strange reason he was also wearing a black tie, tucked precisely into a purple collar at his throat. The silk ran down the midline of his chest, ending just as a telltale trail of soft brown hair begun to arrow downwards, vanishing into the top of the skirt.

            If Phil Coulson were prone to ridiculous metaphors, he’d have sworn his jaw struck oil.

            “Sir. I’m here to hand in my report.” It was said completely deadpan, nothing out of place, just a regular guy handing in a regular report to his regular boss. The glitter in his eyes and the subtle upward quirk of his lips said this was as far from regular as they could get.

            Coulson knew he was staring, but what else was he supposed to do? _Act professional,_ suggested a calm, rational part of his brain. _Take it easy. He was plastered last time._

            “…” was all that came out. What was it Agent Romanov had said that night, when she’d seen her partner-in-not-quite-crime getting flirty with S.H.I.E.L.D’s top official? _“Careful there, Coulson. You let him keep up with that and he’ll go into full-on mating display.”_ She’d grinned at him entirely unsympathetically, winked and walked away.

            Had she set them up?

            The other simply cocked his head to the side, still grinning.

            “Natasha?” The word was out before he could stop it.

            “Yup.” He dropped the report dismissively onto the desk beside Coulson’s laptop. “She said you could do with a bit of a break since your party was over before you wanted it to be.”

            The double meaning snuck into Coulson’s mind, flashing the distracting memories of his favorite Avenger sidling up to him and whispering frankly filthy things into his ear. How his breath had been heavy and thick with the fruity scents of the expensive wine, tickling over his senses and putting him at half-mast before he could control himself. How he’d brushed a searing kiss over his pulse with far more accuracy than a drunken man should have, before waving cheekily and utterly vanishing from sight.

            And here they were again, but both of them were sober now and Coulson wasn’t an idiot. He knew when opportunity came a-knocking to not only invite it in, but to make it comfortable and content so it wouldn’t hesitate to start visiting regularly.

            He shut his laptop and shoved all papers into the desk’s drawers where they couldn’t snag at his attention. Swallowing hard, he straightened to meet Clint’s amused glance.

            “Did you lock the door?”

            “Yup.”

            “Good.” He buzzed his secretary. “I won’t be taking any calls or meetings for the next couple of hours. Need to discuss this report with Agent Barton very thoroughly.”

            “Very good, sir.” He could distinctly hear what sounded like several others besides his secretary smothering their laughter before the connection was cut.

            It was a damn good thing his office was soundproofed.

            He turned back to Clint, and let a seductive smile through. _Poor Barton_ , he thought, _he has no idea what he’s in for. I’ll Phil him to the brim, haha._

_Christ, did I really just think that?_

            “Is that right?” Clint breathed. “I’ve never heard _that_ turn of phrase before.”

            _Christ, I said that out LOUD?_

            “Yup.” He was directly in front of Coulson now, eyes darkening with sheer and simple lust. “You’re on amazing form t’day, Phil.”

            “I show you just how amazing my form can be,” he said. When Barton burst out laughing he almost joined in. “I figure I’ve already made enough of an idiot of myself so I may as well go for the full nine yards.”

            “Aw, you guessed my measurements. Now the surprise is spoiled.” Clint seemed to be perfectly at home with re-enacting a porno so bad Ron Jeremy would have been ashamed to be part of it. Coulson was glad to know he wasn’t the only one who liked to be playful in bed.

            “So whaddya say, Phil? Wanna be the quiver for my arrows?” It was Coulson’s turn to let loose a laugh, as he grabbed the other roughly by the hips and yanked his battle-hardened body to his own.

            “Oh yeah baby, you know just how to get me hot,” he said in a terrible falsetto. One that turned suddenly into a deep groan as Clint suddenly swooped his head down to suck hard at his neck, while grinding his crotch in maddening circles against Coulson’s. Playtime, apparently, was over.

            Coulson grabbed the younger’s wrists and tugged them overhead in one hand, shoving him backward so that his thighs hit the edge of the desk with a dull thud. Flicked over one hardening nipple with his free hand and pinned Clint’s legs inside his own so he could take control of their thrusts, eliciting harsh and panting breaths with every stroke. He may work a desk job now, but he’d had his share of combat training and was stronger than he looked.

            The only problem was that Clint had had the same training way more recently than Coulson, and he’d had a hell of a lot more of it.

            He relaxed marginally, letting the older man think he’d gained the upper hand. Moments after Coulson had relaxed his grip just so, he broke the hold on his wrists, slid to the floor and between Coulson’s legs, only to shoot again to his feet and press the other into his own desk from behind. Coulson had braced his hands on the edge of the expensive wood to keep from falling as the speed of Clint’s movements had unseated his balance; now they were pinned as Barton pressed his bare chest along the back of the agent.

            He chuckled darkly, the rich sound feathering over Coulson’s ear and curling the desire low in his abdomen into a pulsing, pounding flame. He hiked up his skirt easily and started sliding his cock teasingly along Coulson’s arse, pushing and pushing and fueling that sweet friction. The older man’s breathing had quickened, catching on every other exhalation. His neck was beginning to dampen, and Clint knew how uncomfortably warm he must be in his suit.

            He intended to stoke that heat, build it high until the other was begging to have his clothes ripped away, until he willingly discarded his façade of cool, detached dignity in favor of a good, hard fuck.

            It didn’t take long. Coulson railed against the fleshy steel of Clint’s grip, letting out a frustrated growl, wriggling his hips in protest and only serving to harden Hawkeye further. And he pressed back all the more with trademark precision.

            “Is there something you want?” he whispered harshly as the other struggled. “Something you’re just _aching_ for? Hm?”

            “I’m trying to get my damn clothes off.” The words came out harsher than Coulson had thought himself capable of, but in a way he was quite pleased. It had been a long, long time since he’d allowed himself to lose control. Giving up on any modicum of propriety, he began to slide up and down, stroking Barton’s cock with the cleft of his arse. “What about you, Agent? From where I’m standing –” he sank down, clenching just slightly, “ – there’s something –” he slid up again, rocking his hips, “ – you’re rather _aching_ for yourself.”

            “Dirty tease,” Clint snarled, and pulled away long enough to rip Coulson’s belt open and tug his slacks and briefs to the ground in one smooth motion. “You’ll have to pay for that.”

            But Coulson simply turned his head and let a feral grin through. “Age and treachery will always overcome youth and skill,” he said silkily, licking his lips, eyes alight. “A lesson I intend to teach you today.”

            Suddenly Clint was on his back with Coulson straddling him easily; as he’d risen from removing Coulson’s pants the man had struck with the speed of a viper, sweeping the younger’s legs out from under him with an almost casual kick. Barton had crashed to the floor with a bone-rattling thud, the wind nearly knocked out of him, when the official had effectively pinned him with his entire body, hands again being tugged above his head.

            An all-too-familiar click suddenly echoed through the room, cutting through their labored breathing. Clint’s eyes were suddenly confused, almost panicked as Coulson sat up and braced his hands on the younger’s lithe hips.

            “I’m not playing anymore, Agent.” And indeed, triumph was riding high in the man’s eyes as Clint struggled against the handcuffs Coulson had had hidden in his pocket. He was now chained to the desk, and strapping though he was even he couldn’t lift a four-hundred-pound piece of wood from his prone position.

            He was on the point of bargaining, convincing the other that it’d be worth his while to free him when his cock was engulfed by a warm, wet mouth, tongue dragging lazily over the sensitive head. The words died in his throat and a shallow moan took their place.

            He had never guessed that it would be him lying back and being pleasured, when he’d been planning this whole venture to be the other way around. Give the old guy a bit of a break and show off his skills in this particular arena. Pinned to the ground, back arching and moan after moan spilling out of him, he decided that the “old guy” was a much more formidable opponent than he’d given him credit for.

            And now he paid the price for his miscalculations, but he sure as hell wasn’t complaining. Phil was doing unbelievable things to his cock, and his tongue seemed everywhere at once, sucking and licking and undoing him inch by inch and oh _God_ right _there!_

            Coulson’s tongue was wriggling against the tiny slit while his tight lips massaged the glans, and Clint knew that if this were kept up he would be done for all too soon.

            “Phil… _fuck_ , Phil, I’m gonna – ah…”

            The older man withdrew, grinning down at his handiwork. Clint was flushed, sweating, his cock rock-hard and at full attention. His own breathing far from even, he made quick work of the rest of his restrictive clothing until he knelt naked between the younger’s thighs.

            “Not yet, you’re not,” he said, voice gone low and husky. “Not until I’m finished with you.” He leaned over, brushed two fingers over Clint’s parted lips. “Suck.”

            Clint complied eagerly, swirling his tongue around the slightly salty digits until Coulson moaned. He suckled at the fingerpads, wanting to hear more from his superior, but suddenly the fingers were gone and pressing against his perineum. He let out an involuntary yelp as they pressed and prodded, caressed and pushed in all the right places. Then they slipped inside, and the noises that poured out of him shot straight to Coulson’s groin.

            It was glorious, feeling the clever fingers slip in and out of him, so smoothly and so slowly, stretching him wide in preparation for the culminating event. With each push of knuckles over his tight arsehole, every carefully timed brush over his prostate, he moaned a little louder, rocked his hips a little more. He was wet and ready and yes, aching to be filled. To be fucked, hard and fast and mindlessly.

            Carefully removing his fingers, slicking himself over and positioning himself at Clint’s entrance, that’s exactly what Coulson gave him.

            He pushed in slowly, inch by agonizing inch, raising Clint’s knees to his chest as he did so. Once fully seated he withdrew again, barely inside…and pushed back in with one heart-stopping thrust, and began to pound into him in earnest.

            Clint got those noises back, that was for sure. It seemed Phil was absolutely vocal during sex, a trait belied by his normally calm and smoothly controlled tones. There was no semblance of control in the man now as he bent over Clint, fingers pressing bruisingly at his hips and pistoning into him, again and again, ever harder and always with an increase in tempo. And Clint wasn’t one to keep quiet either, his shouts of pleasure mingling with those of Phil’s.

            It was incredible, having that fullness snap into him, breaching him endlessly as he raised his hips to meet Coulson thrust for desperate thrust. Coulson was having his own trouble keeping himself away from that beautifully ragged edge; Barton’s clenching, perfect heat was sending him hurtling toward release at an absolutely breakneck pace. Already he could feel the telltale tightening at the base of his spine that signaled the end, but he needed this to last just a little longer. There was one last thing he wanted to do.

            Shortening his thrusts for a moment, he scrambled in his discarded pants and fished out the key to the cuffs that were now biting into Barton’s wrists. Leaning over, kissing the younger man roughly, he put the key in the lock and prepared to free his partner.

            “When I let you go, touch yourself. Stroke that big cock of yours until you come, you hear me?” He tugged at Clint’s lower lip with his teeth, fingers brushing over the insides of his wrists. “I want to see you pull yourself off while I fuck you.”

            “Yesss,” Clint hissed, practically writhing from the pleasure already consuming him. He tugged at his bonds as their lips met again, tongues tangling hotly in need.

            _Click._

            Clint’s hand shot towards his crotch, groaning into Coulson’s mouth as he took himself in hand. Stroking hard and fast, matching the other’s pace, the slick sounds driving both men wild. One, two, three more pulls from root to tip and Clint nearly screamed as he came, body shuddering and convulsing as liquid shot clear to his chin. Everything was bright and sharp-edged and unbearably delicious for a moment…and then he drifted back to earth as Coulson’s stuttering, gasping thrusts signaled his own end.

            They lay slumped against one another for a long while, letting the pounding in their bodies gradually subside.

            “Shit,” Clint eventually breathed. “No idea you had it in you.”

            “More like I had it in you, bird-boy.”

            Barton chuckled and sat up, affectionately pushing Phil off of him. “I hope you’re happy,” he muttered as he straightened his skimpy clothing.

            “You can bet your ass on that. Why d’you mention?”

            Clint shot the older man a pained grin. “Tasha’s gonna laugh her ass off at me for losing a fucking match to the ever-reserved Agent Coulson.”


End file.
